I see my childhood and see nothing but a mystery.

A pile of poetry books,

A lonely flower growing wild in a solitary garden,

and no water- not anywhere. 

Like a wave of relief, like music after perpetual silence,

The words burst forth from the sky.

Rain in a 12-year-long drought of fluff and mindlessness.

Petals opened wide to soak in new-found joy 

and solitude wasn't quite so solitary.

Dew drops of Oscar Wilde, 

ee cummings

and Robert Frost 

gathered on her leaves 

to be diffused and stored away through infinity.

Enjoyed later while Having a Coke with You and 

through two roads in a yellow wood,

split in two for right and left and me and you.

And existance: once so futile,

came to be profound

and worldly.

Who could say that finding the words

could bring someone back?

From the grave,

from inside themselves 

or from somewhere unknown.

Even to themselves.

And what was once so plain 

changed

to technicolor dreams of whoknowswhat and

vinyl melodies. 

And gave a soul to she who knew not what she could acheive.

Tomorrow she flies beyond herself

to find new words.

Of life,

and love,

and mystery.

All because of a pile 

of poetry books.